Ezekiel in Walmart

View PDF

Bread aisle for tortillas
          an infant’s hand around my finger
                    sold-out souls
                              sharing beans and lentils
                                        in Babylon, but

I’ve been warned, I think.
          Sand spitting in the wind
                    sun-faded advertisements for
                              lip balm modeled by
                                        nameless lips

we’ll never know.
          Watchman with a clay canvas
                    stolen laptops ripped from their
                              eye sockets for saying
                                        “Stop staring at me,

you fools, you killers.”
          White pipes passing for ceiling décor
                    our temple waiting to become fake fingernails
                              the curdled yogurt lurking back there
                                        Mother Earth staring at a shopping cart

where I find my Father’s corpse.
          Who will scatter Him again?
                    I forget this isn’t the end
                              the baby formula cabinet
                                        swinging open,

empty graves in the future.
          A dream of dusty femurs
                    shiny dog food split across the back
                              a man drives his electric wheelchair
                                        into the potato chips—

we laugh and never help.
          That’s not what this is,
                    a wintry expulsion, a caress, a kiss
                              no one cares to give as we
                                        watch our feet fall in line

to the checkout aisle.
                  We travel hoping to return home
                                    with new gods in plastic bags
                                                      we wish weren’t empty on the asphalt
                                                                        as we cry for flames to light the tundra.